


Witches, With a Capital 'W'

by RenderedReversed



Series: Mahou Shoujo AUs [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: ...maybe a bit, Actually This Is Pretty Awesome, Alternate Universe - Crack, Consensual, F/F, Fashionista!FamousModel!Tom, Femslash, I'm Going to Hell, I'm Not Ashamed, If I'm going to ship TMR/HP, Implied Sexual Content, Insecure!SociallyAwkward!Student!Harry, Magical Girls, Rule 63/Fem!Harry&Tom, So many cliches, The Author Regrets Nothing, What Was I Thinking?, Yuri, cliches, gotta count 'em all, might as well do it thoroughly, still trying to cover all my bases
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2014-04-25
Packaged: 2018-01-20 18:04:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1520126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenderedReversed/pseuds/RenderedReversed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Harry and Tom are both very much female, very much attracted to each other, and very much costume-wearing, weapon-toting, badass magical girls. </p><p>And this is a story of how they got there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Witches, With a Capital 'W'

**Author's Note:**

> Just so you know, you're not supposed to take this seriously.

Harriett “Harry” Potter was no different than any other average person her age. She had friends, had insecurities, had loving parents, and went to school in the morning while sleeping at night.

Her life was ‘normal’. Or, well, in her opinion, _inadequately_ normal.

Touching her mirror with the balls of her fingers, Harry watched her reflection mirror her actions. She looked, and she saw, and she could not help but pick out every little flaw there. Her hair was messy, even though it was long— _it was time to get new hairbands; the others were too old and flimsy now—_ her face was plain. Old fashioned glasses sat on the bridge of her nose, a fitting accessory with her birth name.

She was tall for her age, but it felt almost _awkward_ , making her look even thinner than she already was. Harry grimaced. It was a bad habit, she supposed, to want what one didn’t have, but when she thought about it too much she couldn’t help it. Sometimes, _she_ wanted to stand in a gaggle of girls, complaining that they were too short or their cramps hurt too much or their boyfriends just _never understood_ —certainly, they weren’t the quintessential bunch, and often she found herself throwing dirty looks at those types of people when they grew overly loud, but it wasn’t the _type of person_ they were that attracted her…

It was that they fit in. With each other. Found a place that matched their gender to slide in seamlessly, and smile and laugh, occasionally having their bad moments but also having some good. They didn’t think about much, other than the trivial details.

Harry bit her lip. Maybe _her_ worries were trivial too, but they were enough to make her feel… displaced.

Her body was an athlete’s body—curves, but _small_ curves. She had practiced gymnastics since she was little, signed up for a lesson by her mother and fell in love with it. Hand-to-hand combat was also part of her extracurricular activities—boxing, judo, karate. They had to be, with her police chief father and a godfather and an uncle who loved to wrestle with her. So there was hardly any fat to be seen, never mind notice when she had baggy clothes on… which was, to be honest, usual.

 Being healthy was good. _She_ felt good. Exercise was a part of her routine, helping her escape from whatever troubles that tended to scratch at her mind’s door. But maybe, if there was a little bit more fat, just to help out in the hips or chest department—

Harry let her forehead press against the cool glass of the mirror.

Most of her friends were boys, though with the exception of Hermione; they had been together since kindergarten. It was comfortable. Ron, Neville, Dean, Seamus. She probably would’ve joined the soccer team with them too, if it hadn’t been split into genders. And it wasn’t like she didn’t make an effort to have more friends—certainly, the girl’s team had welcomed her, but it had been so _hard_ to find a camaraderie with the members who were, to an extent, _like her_ …

It was just so, so _hard_ making new friends. She never knew what to say, how to speak. Too many thoughts would fill her head, and then she’d stutter, and blush, and they’d probably thought her too shy to approach anymore. Her peers would call her ‘socially awkward’. Her parents would call her a ‘late bloomer’.

Sometimes, she wondered if it would’ve been better had she been born a boy.

But—but it wasn’t that she didn’t _want_ to be a girl! Really, she did! _She_ wanted to wear cute clothes, maybe a pair of cute heels or boots, a girlish headband, earrings— _if only they didn’t get caught in her hair—_

But she didn’t. In fact, nothing in her closet looked _remotely close_ to anything Harry _really_ wanted to wear. It just _wasn’t practical_! How do you kick in a skirt? How do you run in heels? What if you tore your dress? How do you apply makeup, without smudging it or laying it on too thick? While her baggy, gender neutral clothes were _comfortable_ for the daily activities she often did, sometimes she wanted to give up that comfort, if only to receive a casual comment of “You look nice today.” Just once. Maybe try it again if it went well.

Because she hadn’t heard those words in a long time.

Harry turned around, moving towards her desk. On top there was a girl’s magazine, the only one she owned—had _dared_ to buy. In actuality, there was nothing _inside_ it that she liked, other than a dress or two she dreamed of wearing. It was the cover that made her buy it. The person _on_ the cover.

Tom Riddle—her complete opposite.

Tom was a model, had the _natural_ looks to be one. Rumor had it that someone saw her on the street, asked her to do a photo shoot right then and there, and Tom had simply posed—no questions asked, no prior clothes or make up arranged—she was just _that_ fashionable. _That_ perfect.

Harry didn’t know whether she believed it or not. If she had never seen Tom—impossible, really; the woman was on so many magazines, so many posters, commercials, advertising products—then probably not, but watching her interviews, seeing her work, she doubted.

Tom was her _idol_. Everyone talked about Tom, pointing out all of her good points every time. When people talked about Harry, they spoke of all her… _not so good_ points.

Example. Harry was tall, wasn’t she? Tom was _taller_ , and _curvier_. _Definitely_ curvier. Harry wore glasses, an aged pair she never bothered to replace, while Tom’s eyesight was a perfect twenty-twenty. Harry was a girl—never a lady—Tom was a woman. Harry chose to be called a boy’s name— _but Harriett is_ so _old-fashioned!—_ , while Tom chose hers because “Tommy is childish.”

Tom never faltered in front of a crowd. In fact, when she spoke, people _listened_. No one tried to talk over her, since no one ever _dared_. She was charismatic, even when she didn’t smile. And her smiles didn’t _have_ to be big, or toothy, or flirtatious, to make a statement—whenever Tom smiled, it was _small_. Usually, she _smirked_. And the public loved it. _Harry_ loved it, because Harry didn’t think her own smile was that pretty at all. Of course, it wasn’t like she could pull off _smirking_ ; she didn’t even know how to _make_ such an expression, but it was nice to know that you didn’t have to smile all the time… at least, not if you were _Tom_.

And Tom _chose_ to be single. She didn’t date because none of the men that threw themselves at her feet were worth her time. Harry didn’t have a boyfriend because no one had ever asked, and she was too scared to talk—never mind _ask_ —to any boy outside her small circle of friends.

 _What else…_ Ah! Tom’s sense of fashion wasn’t necessarily girly either, but instead of Harry’s no-gender-identified closet, it was _classy_. There was a clear feminine touch to them, despite not being flowers and lace or bright pink. They were _sexy_ , without showing too much or sending a loose message. It was a modern look, a woman’s turn at professionalism in a job industry that often over-sexualized or over-idealized the female gender if one wasn’t careful. She was cautious, while being _confident_. Tom owned her body, made sure the public knew it; didn’t shame herself while making a statement that _if she decided to be sexy, it was for herself, and she certainly wasn’t going to be ashamed of it afterward._

Tom was what Harry wanted to be—that confidence, so bright and untouchable, was Harry’s ideal. Because she didn’t have it, couldn’t _imagine_ being so assured in one’s own actions or way of dress… how to act like everyone else’s opinion didn’t matter enough to change anything at all. Tom was the action, not the _re_ action.

…It was pointless, really, thinking of something that could never be. Harry shook her head, sighing as locks of her black hair fell in front of her face. She hated bobby pins with a passion, but sometimes the idea of using them didn’t seem so bad anymore. Either way, it was time to get new hair ties. The few she had left looked like they would snap the second she tried to use them.

The sound of her mother calling her name brought Harry out of her thoughts. It was time to go to school.

* * *

Harry had _no fucking idea_ how she got into this mess. One second she was running home late from practice, the streets already lit with their nighttime lamps, then she was being attacked by some _monster—_ and then—and then—

A warm feeling. A flash of light. _Fire_ , the word had come to her in a sudden realization.

And then an old man wearing purple robes—wait, were those _unicorns?_ —and an odd night cap appeared out of what Harry swore was _nowhere_ , smiling like it was perfectly acceptable to be wearing those clothes while walking around at night when no one else was on the streets, and then asked her if she wanted a lemon drop. Or two.

Of course, her answer was no—James Potter had always made it a point to tell her not to accept things from strangers—but the old man just nodded and kept smiling. He was completely unaffected by the pile of ash lying on the sidewalk where… where the _monster_ had been. Bewildered, Harry remained silent, and they stood there like that for at least a minute more. The old man popped a yellow candy into his mouth.

“My name is Albus Dumbledore,” the man introduced himself politely. “May I inquire to yours?”

 _This was a bad idea_ , but Harry was too shocked and confused to control her reflexes. “I’m Harry Potter. Nice to meet you.”

Dumbledore chuckled. “Indeed, it is a pleasure Ms. Potter. I must say, I was worried I wouldn’t get to you in time, but you seemed to manage well on your own there.” His gaze flickered to the pile of ash.

“Ah… Uh… I guess…”

“You must be wondering what that thing was, and what happened to it.” A statement, not a question.

 _That’s an understatement!_ “…Uh, yeah, I mean, yes, I am.”

Dumbledore nodded slowly. His close-mouthed smile was kind. “You’re a Witch, Harry.”

“What?!” Harry blurted out. She blinked rapidly, and then looked at her hands. It was times like these—not that they happened _often_ , or _at all_!—that she wished she had a mirror to check what her face looked like. Not her expression, but just if… if anything _changed_. Certainly her skin wasn’t green, even though the lighting was inefficient to really _tell_ , and her face was no worse than this morning… right? No boils, no long nose, no—

The old man chuckled. “Not _that_ kind of witch, my dear. Capital W; Witch.”

“Uh,” Harry stumbled over her words, “I don’t… Uh, well, _know_ … what’s the difference?”

“Witches,” Dumbledore began, “with a capital W, are females like yourself with magical power to be used to protect the world against the Muggles.”

“…I’m really, _really_ sorry, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Understandable,” nodded Dumbledore. “If you would like, I can explain more to you, but I’m afraid this location isn’t the best. If you could follow me…?”

 _This is a terrible, terrible idea_ , Harry panicked as the old man beckoned her to follow. Numerous amounts of “Don’t follow strangers!”, “Don’t take anything from them either!”, “Kidnappers don’t have to have white vans!” filled her head. How could they _not_? Her father was the _police chief_! Her first answer was to politely decline the old man’s request, and then turn around and run like the hounds of hell were biting at her heels. _Anything_ to get home, where it was safe, and nice, and her mother was probably waiting with dinner, and—and—

But… something was going on here. Something weird. Something—she paused, looking at the ash on the street, remembering the _monster_ , her attacker, the thing made of shadows and darkness, thick sludge and no eyes but _sharp_ , _pointy teeth_ —

Something unnatural. And according to this man, and her experience just a moment ago, she had the power to _fight it._

…Were others attacked, like she? What if they didn’t have that power, this weird fire thing, to kill it? Were they… did they…

How many victims fell to that… _thing_ before it attacked _her_ and she _killed it_?

“Let me call my mother,” said Harry after a moment, “She’ll be worried.”

Dumbledore nodded again. “I understand.”

The phone call was short. Harry said she was staying over at a friend’s house, which her mother was agreeable to, and then quickly texted said friend to tell him of her lie. Neville was confused, but quickly sent back an ‘okay, be safe’ when he sensed behind the words that there was a measure of seriousness to it.

Harry looked up, bit her lip, and walked forward. “I’m ready.”

* * *

The office Dumbledore brought her to was a strange place, Harry mused. It was almost… _magical_. There were little knick-knacks all over, some odd, others somewhat recognizable. There was a drinking bird on his crowded desk, one that oddly enough reminded her of a phoenix. Maybe it was the bright orange and red feathers.

Against the walls, bookshelves filled to the very brim with books of all sizes and conditions stood tall but not tall enough to reach the high ceiling. Every nook and cranny seemed to be _stuffed_ with books! Somewhere off to the side there was a tall body mirror with a weird inscription too small to read from afar, and against the very back wall in front of Harry were lines of portraits, each with a different person in the small frame.

Harry sat docile in a cushy seat in front of Dumbledore’s desk, sipping tea as she tried to regain her wits. It was, admittedly, very _good_ tea. Almost as delicious as her mother’s.

And then someone burst through the doors behind them and Harry turned so fast it made her dizzy to see who it was.

“ _Dumbledore!_ You better have a damn good reason for calling me in on my day off!”

There, in all her rightful glory and much to Harry’s disbelief, stood Tom Riddle. Harry felt her jaw drop, but could not find it in her to close it. _Tom Riddle_! _Tom Riddle_ was standing in front of her! Who _were_ these people, to have connections to someone like _her_? In fact, why was she here in the first place…?

“We have a new Witch in town, Tom!” Dumbledore replied happily without any regard to the furious expression of the woman in front of him. “Isn’t this wonderful? It’s been so long since a Witch has awakened in Hogsmeade!”

Tom glanced over at her and only then did Harry’s jaw snap shut. The look she was giving her was… as if… as if Harry was scum not fit to be on the bottom of her fashionable heels.

“And _what_ ,” sneered the model, her gaze turning back to Dumbledore, “has that got to do with me?”

“Why, you’re going to train her, of course!”

“And _why_ is _that_ , old man?!”

Harry wasn’t sure who to be impressed with—Tom Riddle because she was _Tom Riddle_ or Dumbledore because he was doing an amazing job ignoring her fury.

“Well, why not?” His answer surprised both Harry _and_ Tom. The latter, struck speechless, did not reply.

“Uh, can I at least get an explanation of what’s going on…?” Harry asked, thinking there was no time like the present at this point. If this went on, they might as well have decided a billion things before she figured out what a _Muggle_ or _Witch_ was.

“You didn’t explain it to her yet, and you _called me in_?” snarled Tom. “You know what, _no_ , I’m not dealing with this. I’m going _home_ , where I _should be_ to complete my day off.”

Right before the woman managed to walk out the door, Dumbledore spoke up. “She defeated a level five, Tom. A level five, in one blow, right before my very eyes. And I’ll tell you, even though I know I’m growing old in my age, and my eyes might not be what they used to be—”he peered over the rim of his glasses as if he were reprimanding a child,”—I _know_ this is what I saw.”

Wordlessly, Tom turned around and gracefully settled herself into the seat beside Harry. Dumbledore nodded in approval.

“Right. Now, Harry—would you like to ask your questions first or shall I attempt to explain?”

Startled, Harry mumbled, “Uh, if we could… questions first? I guess…”

“Go ahead then, my dear girl. Nothing to be afraid of.”

Harry bit her lip. “What was that… thing? It… it attacked me… from nowhere, and—”

“A Muggle,” Tom cut her off, “that was a Muggle. A mid-class one, at that.”

Dumbledore explained further. “Muggles are creatures like you saw, Ms. Potter. They are… supernatural, put simply. They are mostly black, inky, shadowy things, but they take many different forms from that general shape, depending on the level of their strength and intelligence. That is how we rank them. Muggles can only be destroyed by Witches, but they are a danger to all of us—to _all_ people, humans.”

“…How are they made?” Harry asked in a quiet voice. She remembered the _size_ of that _thing_ , how it loomed over her, threatening to swallow her whole—

Dumbledore smiled sadly. “They are made from people. Humans. Like your parents, like your neighbors, like your classmates. They are made from strangers who you have never met, even your closest friends. It is the _fear_ and _doubt_ in our hearts that create them, and misery attracts them like bees to honey…”

Harry froze. _Then—all that time—whenever I doubted myself—or thought—_

“A human’s nature,” Tom spoke up, “It is part of our nature, unfortunately. Fear and doubt and sorrow are weaknesses that are ingrained into our makeup. It’s hardly anyone’s _fault_ that they’re made—just a pain on part of us Witches, since _we_ have to clean it up.”

Dumbledore nodded. “That’s right, Ms. Potter. No one should take the blame. Muggles balance the world, I suppose you could say. Their creation is a part of nature, simply one that is unknown to most. With their creation _Witches_ are born; some awaken, some do not. Either way, we fight to _control_ the population of Muggles, to _protect_. Our goal is _not_ to eradicate their _source_ , but rather keep the _source_ safe. Their creation cannot be stopped unless there _are_ no humans, so what we _can_ do is try and get rid of as many as we can.”

“…Because someone has to do it, right?” Harry whispered. “ _Someone_ has to do it… to keep the balance between Muggles and people.”

“Brat catches on quick,” remarked Tom.

“Any other questions? I’m afraid we cannot move too far away from dreary subjects such as this, as it is the crux of your confusion… but our goal is to help you understand, Ms. Potter, before we get into anything more.”

“Uh…” she scrambled to organize her thoughts, “what exactly are Witches? And well… what was that fire that I saw?”

“Ah, yes. The essential question,” Dumbledore noted as he pushed his glasses up. “Witches, my dear girl, are females, much like yourself and Tom here, born with the innate power to combat Muggles. There are artificial means that people like myself use to destroy the Muggles, but you are _born_ with it. It must be awakened to _use_ , however, which is why Witches are actually very few. Our organization seeks to organize the population of awoken Witches, and assist them in their fight, through weapons and lessons and partnerships, or the like—“

“What was the fire like?” interrupted Tom. Her piercing stare was on Harry.

Nervous, the younger girl shifted uneasily, hands fidgeting as she answered. “Uh, bright. And warm. I don’t know why I call it fire, exactly—it was more of a… of a spark. Like a very short burst. I’m not sure what color it was… it just—“

“Was,” Tom finished. Upon the hesitant nod of a reply, Tom turned away and returned to her silence.

“That is what we call your ‘core’,” said Dumbledore.  “Witches use staves, or staffs, as their weapons, but what gives their weapons power is their ‘core’. In other words, that is the essence of your power. Each is different, for every Witch. Ollivander could tell you more of that, if you like.”

Harry nodded, understanding some but not all of the explanation. “Am I… will I… be expected to fight too?”

It was silent before she got a reply.

“That… is a matter wholly onto you,” said the old man with a sigh. “We cannot force you to fight—we can prepare you for it, train you for it, give you a partner or a group to fight alongside _with_ … but we cannot force you. Witches are few, and I will tell you that there are few who have awoken that _refuse_ to fight… but you are given a choice.”

“Don’t underestimate us simply because we don’t have numbers,” Tom said sharply. “If you don’t want to fight, we don’t need an unwilling Witch. I’ve been in charge of Hogsmeade for a _long_ time, and I don’t need _help_.”

Dumbledore began to explain upon seeing Harry’s clueless expression. “Usually, wherever the Witch lives becomes her territory for her… patrol, I suppose you could say. Tom is insistently independent. While most Witches work together with another Witch or even a group, she does not—refuses to, in fact,” he chuckled, “So the Witches born here are usually on standby. They take over whenever Tom has a day off, or are sent to a neighboring territory to help.”

“Which is also why there are plenty of Witches that will train you, _other than me_ , should you decide to fight,” cut in Tom as she glared at Dumbledore.

“Nonsense! I do believe you’ll be a wonderful teacher!”

“No means no, old man.”

“There’s a time and place for everything! _Now_ is the time to broaden your horizons, Tom!”

“Once upon a time I _wanted_ to be a teacher,” she replied flatly, “that time is over.”

“But you haven’t even _tried_! Best to revisit the matter and test it for yourself, hm? You could be losing a wonderful opportunity!”

“ _Or_ be gaining deadweight—“

“Pish posh, Tom! With a little training, Ms. Potter will be one of the best! I can see her potential already. _Now_ , if her _teacher_ was _the best_ , then she’d get there a tad faster…”

“Slow and steady wins the race,” Tom bit back. “ _The best_ of the best are better suited on duty, _not_ _training_ —“

“It’ll be a training experience for you both!” Dumbledore cheered as he clapped his hands once to emphasize. “You get to learn how to work with someone, and Ms. Potter—“

“ _No_ means _no_ you old fool!”

“I’d like to fight.” The argument abruptly cut off. They both turned to Harry.

“Ms. Potter, Witches _do_ get hurt, you know,” Dumbledore warned in a grave tone. “They get injured, sometimes, and even… well, there is _another_ reason why Witches are few in number…”

“I understand, but—“she bit her lip, trying to find the right words,”—I have a mother, and a father, and a godfather, and an uncle who lives with me. My mother is very respected in her field, and my father has a respected job. My life… There are people out there worse off than me, I guess I’m trying to say. And I don’t think I’ve ever tried _doing_ something for someone else—not a specific group of people, but just… well… _people_. And it’s a scary thought, to do something like _fight monsters_ … but in the end, I think about my mother and my father and my dearest godfather and uncle, and maybe even a little sibling if my parents go through with the idea, and if anything happens to them I don’t think I could ever—“

Silence. They let her finish.

“I don’t think I could ever live with myself, is all,” Harry mumbled. “If people are given a choice, other people say they should take the _right_ choice. Well, both choices are probably right in _some way_ , aren’t they? Depends on how you look at it. And in this case, I don’t want to choose what’s _morally right_ , because if I end up hurt or worse my parents will be devastated, and I don’t think I could bear with that either, but—“

Dumbledore nodded encouragingly. “Say what you need to say, my dear,” he coaxed.

“I want to fight because I want to be able to protect them,” Harry finished firmly. “I want to protect the few who _will_ be devastated that I’m hurt. Those who care, and those who I care _about_ … It’s not about making the right choice. It’s about making the decision to do whatever I can to help everyone. And that’s why I’m choosing to fight.”

There was a pause in time, to let her words sink in, before Tom rose from her chair. “Well old man, looks like you have yourself another Witch,” she said. “And if you’re so insistent on having me train her, fine. I’ll do it. _But_ —“

The old man stopped himself before he could jump out of his seat and cheer. Tom glared at him.

“—But,” she repeated, “I will _only_ teach her the basics. After that, she’s on her own, and if she ends up dying out there—“Tom slammed her hands on the wood of the desk, rattling the small objects there as she leaned over,”—Don’t. Blame. It. On. _Me._ ”

“Of course Tom,” Dumbledore waved as if he wasn’t affected at all by the display, “now, won’t you take Ms. Potter to Ollivander? She’ll need a weapon. I trust you two can arrange things between yourselves, yes? Off you go!”

Predictably, Tom spun around and stormed out of the office. She threw a nasty look behind her shoulder as she left, the expression all the more vicious upon her beautiful face.

Harry looked helplessly over at Dumbledore. _Are things really going to be okay…?_

“Not to worry, my dear girl! Tom is actually rather friendly once you get to know her!”

Even more predictably, Harry didn’t believe him a single bit.

* * *

 

“So, what’s your name, child?” Tom asked as she strode down the hallway.

“H-Harry. Potter. Uh, and I’m seventeen—“

“—And not a child, right?”

“Y-yeah…”

Tom smirked. “You’re still a child.”

Harry bristled at that, but kept her mouth shut.

“I’m Tom, but you seem to already know that,” the model continued. “Looks like I’ll be stuck with you for awhile. You have any prior skills?”

 _Skills_ … that could mean a lot of things. Harry tried to think of it in relation to what she would be doing soon enough. “I’ve taken gymnastics since I was little. Uh… I started learning judo five years ago, and the past year I’ve been starting to practice karate…” She was startled when Tom glanced at her in approval.

“Hm. So your decision _wasn’t_ just a silly illusion of playing hero.”

“Err… I guess not?”

“Anything else?”

Harry mulled it over in her head. “I don’t think so,” she answered cautiously.

Tom nodded. “Good enough then. Just so you know, I awoke when I was sixteen. I wanted to be a history teacher. All I was good at was surviving.”

She said nothing more as they entered another room, but to Harry that was enough. It was, strangely, Tom’s own way of reassuring her. That she’d _live_. Perhaps manage to do even more than just _live_. And the idea that her idol, _Tom Riddle_ , had just told her that…

Well, a bit of hope never hurt anyone. Harry hid her smile behind her hand out of habit. Maybe Dumbledore was right.

* * *

 

“Hello Ms. Riddle! I do believe you have someone for me, yes?”

An aging man behind a wooden counter hardly glanced up as they entered the room, fixated on his work. He was widdling away at a piece of wood, using a small knife with great finesse and control as he focused on the minor details. He only looked up when there was no reply.

“Ms. Potter, yes?” The man peered at her with a knowing smile.

“That’s me,” Harry said, her voice sounding too loud for her own ears. “If… If I may ask, who are you?”

The man chuckled. “I am the weaponsmith of the organization. Making staves and staffs for Witches, custom to fit their core—yes, much work is done in this small room of mine! My name is Ollivander, and despite my looks, _yes_ , I’m older than Albus up there.”

 _Older than…?_ Harry blinked.

Tom sighed. “Let’s get on with it, won’t you? This is _supposed_ to be my day off, and at this rate I won’t be getting any extra sleep at all.”

“Very well. Come this way, Ms. Potter.”

He led them both to another room filled with planks and thick rods of wood. It smelt of pine, and some other musky scents that made Harry think of a forest. She watched as he laced his fingers together and stretched his hands high above his head—an audible crack could be heard—before breathing a deep sigh. The man was tougher than his age showed, having to lift many heavy weights as well as do detail work for his job.

“She took down a level five,” Tom said out of the blue.

Apparently this _meant_ something to Ollivander, who muttered a, “You don’t say?” with a troubled expression. Then, he smiled. “Ms. Potter, I do believe I know the perfect wood to fit that core of yours—phoenix feather and holly, another strange combination!”

* * *

 

It took awhile to get used to it—being a Witch. At first the lack of a goodnight’s sleep got to her, but Harry persevered. During the day she went to school, as per normal, met with her friends, spoke to them; all in all nothing felt changed. But at night, she snuck out and met with Tom for lessons. And that was when things… weren’t so normal, for lack of a better description.

It was during her first lesson that she watched Tom transform for the first time.

“Each Witch,” Tom had begun to instruct, “has their own unique dress. We identify ourselves by the witch hat always upon our head. It does not matter what size, what color, or what design it is in—all Witches have a witch hat. Your battle gear as a whole is dependent _entirely_ on you. You think it up, you get it. The creation process is _rarely_ ever redone, so might as well consider whatever you think up permanent. Afterward you won’t have to take the time to call them up—they’ll simply appear when you need them. You’ll be dressed for battle in a blink of an eye.”

Harry nodded to show her understanding. “So, uh, is it like… armor?”

Tom snorted. “Its _official_ name in the books is, in fact, battle armor… but the name itself is practically a hyperbole. For example…”

And then, in a flash of light, Harry’s idol was dressed in different clothing with a pale wooden stave in her hands. Of course, Tom was _all the right degrees_ fashionable. Harry didn’t expect any less—the woman was always dressed _just right_ , even in casual wear. Or, perhaps, it was just the aura that she possessed that made it seem so…?

Tom’s ‘battle armor’ looked actually… more like a business suit. A business suit _no one would ever wear to a meeting_ , but certainly something someone would walk down the runway in. She wore a pinstripe vest over a red silken blouse, the sleeves loose and ending in a Victorian style finish. At her neck was a black cravat. Her shorts matched the fabric of her vest, ending just above mid thigh. There was a slip of skin there just before it met with her black stockings, which continued down her long legs until they met with her heeled buckled combat boots just below her knees.

On her head was a tall, wide, black pointy witch hat, and where the band would usually be at the base was instead a metallic ouroboros.

And Harry now understood what Tom meant—because her outfit just _wasn’t practical_ to be fighting in, but the way she held herself screamed, “I don’t need to be practical to whoop your ass!”

And, of course, there was no way _anyone_ would call what she was wearing _armor_.

“Has… anyone ever tried to… you know, think up _actual_ armor?”

Tom gave her a flat look. “Armor is ridiculously hard to move around in, and Witches _need_ the mobility. Of course, there is the _thinner_ , _light weight_ armor you’re probably referring to. Some have chosen to do so, but that’s rather difficult. Your battle gear is what you desire to wear, _subconsciously_ , as that’s usually what you’ll be most comfortable in. As you can imagine, Witches being all _females_ , the practicality of _actual armor_ is sacrificed in the mind.”

Harry hid a laugh behind her hand at the woman’s expression.

“And, there is the matter of, _surprise surprise_ , magic. Our power. Whatever our battle gear is, it feels like a second skin—you don’t notice it at all. Even if there are frills and lace, you hardly pay a thought to them in battle, and they magically don’t get in the way either. Because our battle gear is made through willpower, _magic_ , it’s automatically mended the next time we call upon it. Now _if only_ that was the same matter for our _normal clothes_ …” Tom sighed. “Alright. Your turn.”

“Wa—wait, what? Huh?”

“Make your battle gear. It shouldn’t take too long.”

Harry furrowed her eyebrows. “But… but… how?”

“Didn’t I just say?” snapped Tom. “ _Think_. _Will it_ into creation. You have the power now. It’s not limitless, but it’s there. Use it.”

The explanation didn’t help at all. Harry frowned, but didn’t try to voice her confusion. It was, in the end, up to her, and if so many other girls— _Witches_ —could do it, why couldn’t she? So she tried to force herself to think.

 _But… think about what? Clothes? Things I’d like to wear? Where is the line between wanting_ battle gear _and just a normal, everyday outfit? Am I… putting too much thought into it? Am I just supposed to think_ give me clothes _and expect it to appear…?_

_What’s the difference?!_

As her eyes were closed, all Harry could do was hear Tom sigh again. “You’re putting too much thought to it,” the woman relented, her tone less irritated and more resigned, “it’s not _what do I want to wear_ , or _how do I want to look like_ , it’s _what_ I look like. It’s _how_ I’m dressed. Your power is _you_ , and what _you_ are is entirely a conception in your mind. That _perfect_ you, that _desired_ you… it’s all there. Simply grasp it.”

And Harry did.

She only realized that something had happened upon hearing Tom’s muffled laughter. Quickly, she opened her eyes, glancing down at herself and realizing she must look rather foolish. From what she could make out through the light of the stars and moon, she was wearing a black long sleeve buttoned up blouse and blazer accentuated with green, her tie a similar shade to match the color scheme. The checkered skirt she was wearing shared the same shade of deep emerald, and beneath _that_ was a pair of black tights that covered all the skin of her legs and disappeared into her boots at mid-calf.

_This… is what I wanted to wear? Ah! Wait! I must look ridiculous in this—no wonder Tom is laughing—_

But then the woman completely disproved her thoughts when she pointed at Harry’s head. “Your hat,” she huffed in laughter, “That’s… the smallest one I’ve ever seen!”

 The teenager blinked before reaching up and trying to feel what Tom was laughing at. It was, in fact, hardly a _hat_ ; from what Harry could feel, the small witch hat was attached to a barrette clipped firmly onto her hair, with—she checked the color—green and black ribbon attached to it. But… well… compared to Tom’s…

It was small.

The woman continued to laugh. Harry felt her cheeks heat up despite the night’s cold air.

“Pfft, it’s so cute! Ha! Honestly, no wonder you don’t wear clothes like that all the time! Strangers would be trying to pat you on the head, even despite your height!”

“Uh… well… Thanks? I… I think…” Harry turned her head in an attempt to hide her blush.

“Now all you need is a name,” Tom mused.

“N-name?”

“Witches don’t go by their real names in the organization,” Tom explained. “If you should get a partner, you’ll probably introduce yourself by your real name, but it’s also just fine to go by alias. It’s a simple courtesy, understand?”

Harry nodded quickly.

“In case you were wondering, my alias is Voldemort,” she drawled, “ _Lord_ Voldemort to the Witches off my territory. Hmph, but you’re one of my own now, so call me what you like.”

“T-Tom is still fine…?”

“I suppose it is.”

They were quiet for a bit, both flipping through names in their head.

“You should choose something feminine,” Tom said suddenly.

 _Huh_? “Pardon?”

“Well, isn’t that common sense? You have a cute face, but you call yourself ‘Harry’… Shouldn’t your alias be cute as well then? To balance it out.”

Harry blinked. And blinked again. She felt her cheeks heat up at the accusation, and several things occurred to her just then—not all nice—flooding into her head like a rapid stream, but _first_ —“Like _you_ could talk! Your name is Tom while your alias is _Lord_ Voldemort! There’s nothing feminine about that at _all_! _And there’s nothing wrong with my name!_ ”

Unexpectedly, Tom huffed a laugh at her in the face of Harry’s outburst. “Mmm… I take it back. I think I like you after all, brat.”

_Three, two, one…_

“ _I’m not a brat!_ ”

…

_No one but my family has ever called me ‘cute’ before…_

* * *

 

And, after a few more lessons with Tom, Harry realized that when the woman meant “only the basics”… well, that was a whole lot more than “only the basics”. She wasn’t so sure Dumbledore was _right_ in saying Tom was, in reality, actually friendly, but it was true that the woman didn’t want her to get hurt or worse. Tom trained her to fight and survive at the same time, _not_ recklessly jump in just because she thought she could help.

Her time with Tom was probably her most treasured part of the day. As time passed, Harry wondered if her life really had gotten better, or if Tom distracted her so much that she no longer thought about her inadequacies.

Either way, it made her smile. And others began to take notice too.

The way Harry carried herself was no longer shy and reserved. Subconsciously she had began to mirror, or at least take some attributes of, Tom’s manner. She stuttered less. She walked looking straight ahead, not down at the ground. She raised her hand during class, not just a short, sheepish wave, but with arm straight and eyes focused. It didn’t shoot up like Hermione’s, but it was confident nonetheless.

People began to notice her not for her faults, but for her abilities. They mentioned how amazing she was in her gymnastics routine, or complimented her on taking initiative to learn how to protect herself.

Harry found she _did_ more than she simply _wanted_. While before she only accepted what was offered to her, now she spoke up. She asked her mother to teach her how to bake, something she dreamed of doing when she thought of an imaginary significant other who would accept her sweets with a smile on their face. She asked her father if he could take some time off from work and spend more time with the family during the summer. Things were different—in a positive light—so much so that Lily chose to comment on it one day.

“You’re happier,” she said as they both sorted through the laundry. “I don’t think you were ever really _sad_ , but maybe just not _happy_. And now you are.”

“…I think I am too, mum,” Harry replied.

Lily sighed, a complicated expression crossing her face. “You know, I always thought it was strange—you were so _different_ from your father and I, not as… socially active, let’s say. But now I think all you needed was someone to reach out. Be your role model…”

“You’re wonderful, Mum,” she said honestly, “Really. I don’t think I could’ve asked for anyone better to be my mother.”

Reassured, Lily smiled at her. “Thank you dear. Remember, you can always come to me if you have any problems, alright?”

Something suspiciously like guilt bit at her heart. Harry tried to smile back. “Yeah, sure.”

* * *

 

“Now that you know at least _a bit_ about protecting yourself, you’re coming along with me tonight,” Tom said as she brushed dust off of her sleeve.

Harry lifted her head in surprise. “Coming with you?”

“I’m on patrol duty tonight,” she replied. “What did you think was going on while I was training you? The Muggles just lying low? The Witches usually on standby were taking care of it.”

“O-Oh…” Harry bit her lip. “Tom?”

“What?”

“Being on standby… uh, is that also going to be me when you’re done training me…? I mean… what’ll happen after?”

Tom glanced back over her shoulder to look at her. “Normally I wouldn’t even be training you. In _that_ case, yes, you’d be on standby. But the old man sees something special in you, and after you defeated a level five in one blow I’d assume you’re _at least_ not your average Witch. Now whether that’ll come to mean something is entirely up to you. As for what’ll happen _after_ , should I deem you pass, you’ll probably be assigned to a nearby town. I don’t need the extra help—didn’t I say so before?”

“You did,” Harry answered, but her reply sounded hollow even to _her_. Because that was the reality of it—Tom was her teacher, she was her student. They weren’t—weren’t _friends_ , or partners, or anything like that. They wouldn’t be. Never could. Tom, untouchable, beautiful, _cold_ Tom could never be reached. Not by someone like Harry.

And in these thoughts, she completely missed the older woman’s softened look, and her muttered, “The future’s not set in stone, after all…”

* * *

 

Watching Tom fight was… it was really indescribable, but the closest Harry could get in one word was ‘magnificent’. Tom’s grace was not limited to the runway—she effortlessly weaved through her prey like they were nothing more than a simple obstacle course, and one second they were there after she passed them… the next they were ash. Harry wondered if _she_ would ever be able to move like _that_.

Then, all of a sudden, Tom darted upward through the cloud of Muggles. Completely airborne, she spun about to steady herself, took half a second to aim, and fired a bolt of electric green down at the mob.

“ _Avada Kedavra!”_

From her lessons, Harry knew what this was. Each Witch had a unique spell, hidden in the very essence of their core. This was the _only_ spell they ever spoke—every other piece of magic was done nonverbally—and was, of course, incredibly powerful. In Tom’s case, hers caused the immediate decimation of a Muggle and had an incredibly short cast, just _two_ words, and could theoretically be used over and over again. The fault in it was taking more and more energy by each successive catch, and it was a very thin beam that could be difficult to aim against a single enemy.

“Pathetic,” she sneered as she landed back down on the building rooftop next to Harry, “I spend a couple of weeks off patrol, and the Muggles are _swarming_ in this place! Listen up brat—you want something done, you do it yourself. That’s the only way you’ll _ever_ know if the job’s done right.”

“Uh… why _are_ they bunched up in one place…?”

Tom glanced at her with curious eyes. “We’re their target too, you know,” she said slowly, “but you’re half right. There’s _a lot_ of them here for some reason…”

The woman took off again into flight, spiraling back toward a growing mob to take care of them. Harry watched her briefly before taking another glance around below, scanning the grounds for any discrepancies. And it was then that she saw it. A dark cloud of shadowy figures, swooping down at just one spot a block away. She could vaguely make out the raggedy cloaks, waving ominously in the night air, and that was when Harry _knew_.

Dementors. Level eight and nine Muggles.

A chill trilled down her spine, the phantom touch more frigid than a gust of winter air.

Harry glanced back down where Tom was. The woman was still fighting, and wouldn’t finish soon—so maybe, if she just crept a bit closer, tried to see what the Muggles were _doing_ … that wouldn’t hurt, right?

She stepped up onto the ledge of the building. _No, it wouldn’t hurt at all…_

Harry leapt. Her legs bent, propelling her from the ledge, sending her flying to the next building. While she couldn’t exactly _fly_ yet, she had at least mastered the ridiculous jumping ability key to any Witch’s mobility. Tom had drilled that into her during their first few lessons. With that, it didn’t take too long at all to reach a safe vantage point nearby the swarming Dementors.

What she saw _horrified_ her. A little girl dressed in rags was on the street, with Dementors crowded all over her, occasionally swooping down. Harry had asked—only _once_ —what exactly happened when a Muggle got to a human. And Tom’s answer had said that “it varied”. Level one or two Muggles could cause severe injuries by ripping or clawing, but the person still had a chance to get away if they kept their wits about them. Level three or four Muggles would also rip or tear to pieces, though this time getting away for an ordinary human would be impossible. Level five and six would eat the person whole. Level seven, they would pull their victims into the darkness and consume them there without a trace. Level eight and nine, specifically called Dementors, would give what they call the ‘Dementors’ Kiss’… suck the human’s soul out and leave the body an empty husk. No one had ever encountered a level ten Muggle.

She couldn’t let those _things_ devour that girl! She… she was an innocent! A human! A _person_!

Harry glanced back over at Tom’s direction. Too far away—she couldn’t fly back over, by then it might be too late, nor could she shout for her mentor either. That would alert the Dementors to her presence, and there was _no way_ she could make it out alive or even save the girl with that. If she charged in recklessly…

Harry paused. She’d never fought a Muggle as a Witch before. She’d sort of sparred with Tom, but all those times she’d gotten her ass handed to her. So, how…? _Think Harry! Think! You can’t let that girl_ die _!_

 _Wait._ A Witch’s power would only harm a Muggle. In that case, if she could take all those Dementors out in one go—or maybe half, at least a third?—with pure _force_ , then that would buy her enough time and space to swoop in, grab the girl, and use the nearby building to leap out. But how could she do _that_? There were a few long-ranged spells Tom had showed her, but none of them would be able to take out _that many_ Dementors at one time!

Harry groaned. She needed like, like… a grenade, or something!

 _…Wait_ …

Maybe that was it! If she could make something _explode_ , that would take them all out! But it couldn’t be a physical object, otherwise it would hurt the little girl too. It’d have to be a manifestation of power—from _her_. But what would keep its form, never mind its _shape_ for an indefinite amount of time…?

A barrier. A shield. Maybe—

Harry lifted her hand up and stared at it. That would be _perfect_. The deflection on a shield would make the explosion even _bigger_. But how to do it…?

_Think it up!_

Could she?

_Use your will!_

But—

_Just. Do. It._

Harry bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut, hoping beyond all hope that this would work.

_I’m in a rhythmic gymnastics lesson. There is a ball in my hand that I will toss. I have it in my hand, holding it with the balls of my fingers—_

_I can feel it._

She opened her eyes. This would have to be perfect. Another attempt and the Dementors would notice her. She’d have to throw it in their midst, and then hit it with another spell to blow it up. Her aim would have to be on point. She—

She wasn’t Tom. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t do it.

_One chance, Harry—!_

She pulled her arm back and threw. The red orb propelled forward, flying towards the crowd of shadowy black unnoticed. Right when she figured it was in deep enough, Harry pointed her stave, steadied her hands, and fired. There was a few seconds before her bolt of energy reached the orb that she prayed to whatever deity there was up above that’d it hit its mark.

It did.

There was a loud explosion as the orb reacted violently to the incoming magic. A static discharge ran through the cloud of Dementors, turning one by one, two by two, three by three to ashes. This was her chance. Harry leapt off the building, made a mad dash toward the girl as soon as her feet touched the ground, and planned to follow her escape route of leaping across a shorter building to safety… until the Dementors fell in on her.

Their chilly presence kept her frozen in place. The girl was deadweight in her arms. All Harry knew was the sound of screaming, her knees locked, feet immovable and glued to the ground—

 _“Harry!”_ a woman’s scream.

_“Harry!”_

_“Ha—rry!”_

She was so pathetic. She couldn’t save even _one_ person. One life… one precious life… She couldn’t do it.

She was weak after all.

“ _Avada Kedavra!”_

…What…?

Electric green surrounded her. The cold melted away, replaced by a fiery warmth. One second there was dark dark _dark_ , the next there was… there was _Tom_.

“Incompetent fool. What the hell do you think you’re doing? _Move_.”

The words woke up her body. Suddenly she could feel her extremities again—Harry took in a deep breath before obeying the command and _moving_. She leapt over the building, child in her arms perched at her hip, and continued to move to the closest vantage point. There, she turned around and looked for Tom. The woman was finishing the rest of the Dementors with explosive power, hunting down every single one before she finally lowered her stave and flew off the ground to where Harry was. Her expression was furious—a raging stormy goddess in the face of a travesty.

“ _What_ exactly did you think you were doing?”

“I—“

“ _No_. I _said_ what the _bloody hell_ did you think you were doing?!”

“Saving someone’s life!” Harry shouted back.

“You both would’ve been dead had I not gotten to you! Now I _said_ what _the hell did you think you were doing?!_ ”

“And _I_ said I was _trying to save someone’s life_! Is that so wrong? _Why am I trying to be a Witch if I’m not allowed to save anyone_?!”

“You wouldn’t have saved _anyone_ Potter. You don’t _save_ someone by suiciding. And so what, what if you _did_ sacrifice your life for hers and she got out? _How many people do you think would die because of that_? Your life for hers? A Witch for just a regular human? _How many people would die because you wouldn’t be there to kill those damned Muggles?”_

Harry paused. She took in a shaky breath, looked up and stared straight into Tom’s blue eyes. “I _will not_ value a life over a life, nor lives over _a_ life. I _will not_ value quantity over an individual. If there is a chance I can save someone, _I will save that person_. That is why I want to fight. Why I _will_ fight. It may be stupid, may get me killed, but that is what I believe and that is what I will follow. And nothing you can say will make me willing to _watch someone die_ if I can _do something about it_.”

Tom sneered down at her, unimpressed. “Fine. Go play hero. Do what you want.” She shoved past and began to walk away.

Harry sighed as she closed her eyes. Had… had she really just done that…?

There was a tug at her sleeve. “Thank you,” the little girl said. She tried to smile. “I knew you would save me. I was waiting for you.”

“Ah—uh—you were—?”

The little girl’s smile grew. “I heard your voice inside my head. You asked me to trust you. I did.”

Baffled, Harry didn’t know what to say. She introduced herself instead. “I’m Harry.”

“I’m Luna! Nice to meet you!”

And the innocence on the child’s face was enough for Harry to believe everything was worth it.

“ _Harry_.”

Startled, the teenager turned around. Tom had stopped a few meters away, her back still turned and her aura still cold and standoffish, but she had _definitely_ said her name.

“As far as hunting goes, for a first time that wasn’t so bad.”

…Maybe there was hope for them after all. Harry ran to catch up.

* * *

 

Apparently, Tom found her reckless and needing watching after, but strong enough to begin fighting seriously. Experience was the best way to learn after all, according to her. To meet with Tom’s approval was a thing that surprised Harry—after the whole Dementor ordeal she’d expected a revisit to basics, just to torture her, but the woman had other ideas.

And actually, they worked together rather well. Fighting with Tom had actually taught her how to fly, sort of—enough to lift off the ground in times of desperation was a better way of putting it. Sometime between then and there Harry began to think of Tom as a _partner_ instead of a mentor—they had differing views on things, practicality for instance, but upon certain matters they agreed to disagree.

Privately, Harry wished she could get along with Tom _outside_ Witch matters as well—she wanted to know more about the idol turned friend of hers—but the topic never came up. It was always Muggle affairs, Witch training and ranking, details she’d need to know later on after she got out from under Tom’s wing.

Their pace was fast. Harry wondered when she’d collapse from it all.

One night after their recent hunt, where Harry had gotten badly clawed on her left arm by a level four, Tom took her home to her penthouse.

“If you go to the HQ to get this treated, they’ll keep you there for hours,” Tom had explained. “Your records there are practically nonexistent—they’d want to get a bit more medical data on you at the same time, and that takes _forever_. Leave it for later; you look exhausted and the night’s not young anymore.”

“Err—“

“Don’t look so worried. I know what I’m doing.”

And that had been that.

Tom also explained that wounds from Muggles would heal faster than normal cuts and scrapes, since they were Witches. That was reassuring—Harry didn’t know what to tell her parents if they caught sight of her bandaged arm by accident. The less she had to hide, the easier it’d be. She wasn’t exactly used to keeping secrets to begin with.

“Haa,” Tom breathed, leaning back on her soft couch. She threw an arm back, letting it hang off of the cushions.

Harry had never seen the woman so relaxed. She sat stiff beside Tom, nervous and not quite so sure what she should do. Well… her wound was wrapped, wasn’t it? Should she… should she go home?

Her thoughts were cut off when a weight landed on her lap. Startled, Harry looked down and saw Tom staring up at her. “Err—Tom—?”

“It’s useless,” Tom muttered.

“What’s useless…?”

She mumbled something else unintelligible.

Harry blinked. “Tom… are you… tired?”

The model turned over to lie on her side, her head still in Harry’s lap. “Work’s a pain in the ass,” Tom said, “I really can’t catch a break. Both modeling _and_ at the HQ. Dealing with people is really troublesome—I don’t even know why I work in the modeling industry if Dumbledore pays me so much already.”

“…But you do.”

“I _know_ that,” she sighed. “It helps me stay fit.”

Harry glanced further down at the contours of Tom’s body, eyes trailing over the curves and pale, smooth legs that were crossed over each other—

It took her a second of appreciative looking before she realized she was actually _checking out_ another female. The thought had her sliding her eyes back to Tom’s face. “Being a Witch isn’t enough?” she asked cautiously.

“Helps me stay fit _for_ hunting,” the woman corrected herself. “Sometimes I simply want to eat what I _want_ to eat though.”

Harry grinned. “I think I sort of know what you mean. There’s this really cute cake shop near my school, and all the other girls go there but—“

“You can’t go? Why not?”

“It’s—“Harry paused. “It’s not the type of place I _can_ go. I’m not dressed the right way, or look like the other patrons… I know it shouldn’t matter, but I don’t want to go to a place and try and enjoy a delicious slice of cake while being stared at. Especially alone.”

“You can’t go with any of your friends?”

“My friends… are mostly boys. And Hermione—she’s my only _female_ friend—isn’t the type to go to those places, I don’t think.”

“You can’t buy new clothes then? Judging by your battle gear your sense of fashion isn’t terrible.”

“Thanks,” Harry snorted. “And… I _do_ want to buy cute clothes but… I’ve never tried? I guess. It feels weird. I wouldn’t know where to go, and I don’t want to go alone. People will look at me funny.”

“There’s nothing to laugh at when a cute girl goes to buy cute clothes,” said Tom. She shut her eyes before she could see Harry’s growing flush. “Mmm… nothing weird about that at all.”

The silence stretched for a moment longer. Tom’s breathing evened out, and Harry realized the woman was asleep. The thought made her cheeks warm up even more if that was possible.

…Because the temptation was too great.

Harry raised her hand, tentatively hovering it over Tom’s head. The woman wouldn’t wake up because of a light touch, right? She had _always_ wondered what Tom’s hair felt like—it was so smooth, and silky, and unlike her own bird’s nest. She probably used an expensive brand of shampoo and conditioner to make it look like that—but Tom could afford it. She was a _celebrity_. Harry bit her lip in indecision.

She took the risk and ran her fingers through Tom’s hair. It _was_ soft. She took a second to inwardly freak out over being so close to her idol as to—as to do something like _this_ —because Tom _trusted_ her enough to fall asleep. In her lap. After calling her cute.

_This woman—! What kind of mixed signals are these?!_

But they were both females. Did—did most girls do this with their friends? Certainly, Hermione had never used her as a lap pillow—but were they usually this familiar with each other? This teasing? This _flirtatious_? Tom changed so much it gave her whiplash. One second she was the cold, irritable mentor, the next the understanding and amiable tutor, the second after that she could be the frighteningly beautiful warrior—and then—and then—

Do all kinds of things _like this_. Compliment her. Brush a stray hair back behind her ear. Stand so close to her that she _had_ to notice. _Trust her_.

Harry wanted to _scream_. _Looks like I won’t be getting home anytime soon._ She reached for her phone, set an alarm for the early early morning on vibrate so she could dash back to her bedroom before anyone could notice, and then tucked it away into her pocket so she could lean back into the soft cushions.

She ignored the way her hand immediately went back to Tom’s hair and continued to play with it.

* * *

 

At least five weeks after, once Harry had fallen into her regular routine of school, friends, home, family, homework, hunting, and as much sleep as she could scramble to get, Tom broke her schedule.

“Haha! Did you _see_ that move? I couldn’t believe I blocked it!” Ron exclaimed as they all walked out together. The final bell had rang three minutes ago.

“Knew you had it in you, Ron,” Dean said as he slapped his friend on the back.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Now if _only_ you could apply yourself _just as much_ to your _schoolwork_ …”

“Aww, _Hermione_!”

Harry hid a smile with her hand. She was about to say something, before a crowd at the front gates caught her attention. “Uh, guys?” she called instead. They all turned to look at her. “What’s going on _there_?”

“I dunno,” Neville murmured. He furrowed his eyebrows and tried to see over the crowd.

“Maybe an event…?” Hermione volunteered. “Ah, but I don’t remember reading anything on the daily bulletin…”

Seamus frowned and tapped the shoulder of someone in the crowd. “Do you know what’s going on over there?”

The student spun around and looked at them incredulously. “What? You don’t know? _Tom Riddle_ is at the front of our school!”

“… _What?!_ ”

“Dunno why she’s there—looks like she’s waiting for someone actually. But she’s just _standing_ there! Everyone’s trying to get her autograph!”

Harry stiffened. It… well, it _couldn’t be_ , right? But why else would Tom be here? She’d mentioned her school once or twice, maybe, in a conversation—but surely Tom wouldn’t remember something so insignificant, right?

Well, there was only one way to find out. Slowly, she began to squeeze herself through the crowd and make her way over until she could see Tom through and over the heads of some students, her friends right behind her in the bustling crowd. And, sure enough, there was Tom, leaning against the gate, completely unperturbed and not paying any attention to the mob of students. When she felt her gaze on her, Tom looked up from her watch, locking eyes with her and smirking. Then, she lifted a hand and beckoned with a finger.

Okay, she admitted it. Harry _gapped_.

“Uh, was she… that was in our direction, right?” Ron managed to make out.

Hermione, equally shocked, turned to Harry. “I think… I think she meant _you_... but surely not, right?”

“Uh,” speechless, Harry didn’t know what to say. “I’ll… I’ll see you guys later, alright?”

“Mate, you’ve _got_ to explain how you know _Tom Riddle_!”

“Maybe later Ron…”

And with that, she began to move through the crowd again. All the students having saw the direction Tom had pointed in were turning this way and that, trying to find the person she was talking to. When Harry tried to move through them, not all too subtly, most made way for her. Eventually this was enough to get her standing in front of Tom.

…Admittedly, Harry felt rather inadequate. It wasn’t like when they were on the battlefield together, hunting Muggles. Here, she was just a high school student, and Tom was a _model_ …

“Afternoon,” Tom greeted with an amused smirk.

“Yeah,” replied Harry awkwardly, “Hi.”

“You’re free, right?”

She blinked. Well, there _was_ her plan to head to the studio and practice… But Tom was more important. “Yeah, I’m free.”

“Good,” Tom nodded. She spun around, expecting Harry to follow, and headed a few meters away to her car. “Get in.”

Harry did. “Where are we going…?”

“You’ll see.”

…That was not a good sign. Or at least, Harry didn’t _think_ it was. Tom started the engine and they took off. When they stopped, it was in a shopping distract that she recognized, but never really had the pleasure of window shopping through herself. Her mother often did though. It was a rather expensive place—certainly not for the thrifty and frugal—but the clothes were pretty and high quality, just like the food.

It was the type of place Harry would never have decided to go to. She wondered if Tom took _that_ into account.

“We’re here,” Tom declared, sliding out of the car. Harry mirrored her action from the passenger seat.

“Where exactly is—“

Her question was cut off as her friend motioned to the shop in front of them. “Here.”

 _Definitely, definitely_ a shop she would never have walked into. A fashionable shop where _ladies_ shopped, carrying their shopping bags by the handle on their arms, walking and chatting with their companions as they strolled down the aisles in _five or six inch high heels_ … _nonono! Tom!_

“We’re—going in—there…?”

“Yes.”

And then Tom took her by the hand and tugged her in, completely disregarding a few of the strange looks.

A woman greeted them as they entered. “Welcome. May I help you with anything, ladies?”

“I’m picking some clothes out for her—“she motioned to Harry,”—we’ll call you if we need any assistance.”

“Of course.”

It took a full minute of being dragged around by Tom for Harry to find the voice to say something.

“Wa-wait! Tom! What are we doing here?”

The model gave her a flat look. “ _Shopping_. I _know_ you’re smarter than that, Harry. Now here, try this on—oh, this too—“

And that was how Harry found herself practically living in the dressing room as Tom took it upon herself to flip through all the clothes in the store and filter out the few that she believed “went with Harry’s eyes.”

It wasn’t that Harry didn’t appreciate it—she did, or well, _would_ , if she understood what was going on in the first place—but the odd break in her routine had her completely displaced, and all she could really do was, well, obey orders. _It was in her default settings, okay?!_

“Mmm… not that one,” Tom declared as she stood behind her in front of the mirror. “A bit _too_ feminine. You’re not the type to have frills. Lace is alright though.”

“Tom?”

“Hm?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“You’ll have to be more specific Harry.”

She gulped. “I mean, why are we shopping? For _me_?—“

Tom held up a hand to stop the oncoming rush she could predict, by experience, was coming. “You wanted to buy new clothes, didn’t you? Something to look nice in. There’s no shame in wanting to take pride in your appearance Harry, no matter _what_ anyone says. They’re all baseless claims. You wear what you like, you buy what you like.”

“ _Yes_ , but why are you doing this _for me_?”

Tom stopped. She _looked_ at Harry, glancing up and down and scanning her body. It made the teenager fidget. “That one isn’t any good either. Try on this one.”

“—Wait, Tom! You didn’t answer my—“

“ _Try it on._ ”

Cowed, Harry obeyed. When she finished putting the pair of skirt and top on, she exited the small stall to find Tom waiting for her, some accessories on hand. The woman pulled her to stand in front of the mirror, and then began to fix her up. First she tied a scarf around her neck, made of a thin light material that felt smooth against the skin, then she untied Harry’s ponytail and returned the hair tie.

In front of the mirror, Harry was embarrassed to see how messy her hair was when it was let down—she _really_ _couldn’t_ control it; it wasn’t _her_ fault! No shampoo or conditioner could keep it down—a trait from her father’s side. The only thing that lessened the untamable mass was keeping her hair long and up—having it short was just _asking for it_. Perhaps it would’ve been charming had she been a boy, but in elementary school her messy hair had been the source of a lot of teasing that went around.

But Tom paid it no mind. She slipped a hair band onto Harry’s head, then pulled the rest of her hair to one side. With this, she tied it in a loose low ponytail, parted the hair before the tie, and looped the hair below through the hole. This had Harry’s hair twisting up in a spiral and, for the most part, controlled, as if it had been braided.

“Chin up, brat,” she whispered into her ear. “Didn’t I tell you? There’s nothing to laugh at when a cute girl wants to buy cute clothes. It’s a waste if you don’t dress up sometimes—and even more of a shame if you’re too afraid to try. Who would laugh at you looking like _this_?”

“Okay…” Harry swallowed. “I look nice.”

Tom snorted. “ _More_ than nice. Don’t try and insult my skills.”

“This is great and all Tom, but what makes you think I can afford to buy this?” Harry tugged at the price tag dangling from one of the accessories.

“Oh, well, you’re not paying for it, so don’t worry about that.” It was said _far_ too casually.

“…Then who’s paying for it?” Harry asked suspiciously.

Tom gave her a reprimanding look. “ _Don’t_ go back to being a speechless fool. Use your brain. Of _course_ I’m paying for it!”

“But Tom—“

“Do you _really_ think I would take a high school student into this shop and expect them to pay for the clothes _I_ picked out?”

“Well—“

“And do you really think I didn’t take into consideration this trip was entirely unplanned on your part and you probably wouldn’t have even brought _half_ of the money to pay for that skirt you’re wearing, never mind that _top_?”

“Err—“

“And did you _really_ think I was going to dress you up all nice and lovely and then tell you that you weren’t going to get _any_ of it?”

“…Uh—“

“Tell me Harry, how much money do you think I make?”

“Tom—“

“And between work, exercise, hunting, and trying to get a good night’s sleep, leaving me practically _no time whatsoever_ for me to shop, how much money do you think I _spend_ on a daily basis?”

“Maybe—“

“Tell me Harry, are you _really_ going to act like an idiot the whole time you’re with me today—because that would be a _complete_ , _utter_ waste—or need I say more?”

“Okay!” Harry shouted, “I get it! You’re paying! Forget I ever said anything!”

Tom smirked. She poked one of the teenager’s flaming red cheeks with her index finger. “My, if I knew you were so agreeable, I would’ve tried to get a day off sooner.”

“N—wait, it’s your day off?” Harry blinked.

“Hm? Yeah. It is.”

“Wait—“She thought back to the first time they met, how outraged Tom was at getting her time off interrupted,”—shouldn’t you be at home then? Resting? I mean, with everything going on, you should be taking a break!”

“I _am_ taking a break,” Tom replied, amused.

“No you aren—“

“Harry, do we have to go over again how my plan for today has absolutely zero flaws?”

“No! I mean, Tom, you—“

Tom blinked. “Ah, you’re blushing again.”

“That’s not the point!” she blurted out.

“Then what _is_?”

It really _was_ hard to say without sounding weird, or arrogant. Harry bit her lip. “Are you sure you want to spend your day off with me?”

Tom sneered. “ _Again_ with the doubting my plans… Fine. _Yes_ , if it reassures you Harry, I want to spend the day with you. Happy?”

She hid a smile beneath her hand. “…Yeah. I’m happy.”

* * *

 

They ended up visiting two other shops, Tom buying her clothes from each. The difference from the first shop was, surprisingly, a slower pace—Harry found herself beside Tom near the racks now, asking the older woman’s opinion before setting it aside to try on later. And, while some part of this was still utterly surreal, Harry enjoyed herself. It was… fun. Definitely fun, being with Tom in such a mundane way, not worrying about Muggles or getting some spell to work…

When had she last smiled so much in an hour?

“Alright,” Tom began as they slipped back into her car, “now you lead.”

“…What?”

“The cake shop you wanted to go to. Where is it?”

… _Honestly_ , Harry thought wryly, _I really can’t tell what Tom is thinking._ “…You want to go eat cake?”

“Sort of. _The point is_ , I want to see what’s so _amazing_ about this cake shop that stopped you from going in and eating cake like a normal person.”

“…Well…”

* * *

 

 “Because I have a plain face,” Harry answered, sprawled out on Tom’s bad as they relaxed after a night of hunting. Tom had asked her why she didn’t get contacts.

“…A plain face?”

“Yeah,” she nodded. “My mother has freckles, and full rosy cheeks. She never wears any blush. My father has an aristocratic face—he’s got high cheek bones, and a straight long nose. My uncle has dimples. My godfather smiles and laughs a lot—he’s got perfect teeth. I… don’t have any of that. Compared to them, my face is plain. So if I wear glasses, at least I have those.”

Tom rolled over. The light from the moon shone in from the large window, lighting part of her face and streaming over the contours of her legs and stomach. Her grey-blue eyes gleamed, as they usually did, after a night of adrenaline-rushing work out. Tom was made to be a predator, Harry quickly found, with her keen sense of surroundings and toned body. She was impossible to ignore. Her presence attracted her prey at the same time as instilled fear into them—the deadliest hunter.

“Plain,” she repeated again, drawling the word out on her tongue to taste it a second time. “I don’t see it.”

“Huh?” Harry rolled her whole body onto its side, facing Tom fully now instead of just her head. Her breathing was deep and full, savoring each puff of air as she usually did even long after her pulse slowed to a steady beat instead of the thumping it did during battle.

Instead of answering, Tom reached over and pulled Harry’s glasses off her face, placing them back over onto the nightstand. She sat up, took a moment, and then turned over, pushing Harry’s shoulder gently back down onto the bed so the teenager lied fully on her back and Tom loomed over her.

“I don’t think your face is plain at all,” she breathed. The moon illuminated the steadily growing pink of Harry’s cheeks.

“Your smile, when I can distract you enough to let me see it, is _lovely_. It’s small, but it’s so _bright_. I can tell a million things from your smile—how happy you are, what you’re laughing at, how fast your heart is beating—“Tom leaned closer, supporting herself on one elbow near Harry’s head as she used her other hand to brush Harry’s lips,”—and your lips are naturally pink. Which way they move, I can tell so easily how you’re feeling and to what extent. I can tell when you’re nervous, when you’re surprised—you know, you’re always biting them—“

Harry tried to remember how to breathe as Tom’s hand cupped her cheek and squeezed lightly.

“Your cheeks are soft. You still have some baby fat left in them, I suppose. It doesn’t matter that they’re not like your mother’s. You don’t need blush at all either; all I have to do is compliment you. It’s fascinating how fast you turn red.”

As if to prove her point, Harry flushed.

“Your nose—“she tapped it with her index finger,”—is small. You wrinkle it when you don’t like something. It flattens when you pout. Oh? You didn’t know?”

Still beneath Tom, her legs trapped between the older woman’s, Harry swallowed. She could smell her companion’s scent, and as her hair slid from her shoulders to tickle Harry’s face, her shampoo.

“Your eyes,” Tom began, thumb moving up to brush against the corner, “are probably the most expressive thing about you. I can tell what you’re thinking, _just like that_ , even through those old glasses over yours. When you’re determined, the green is so bright it’s blinding, and when you’re frustrated they glisten with your tears. When you’re tired you don’t want to open them at all, and when you do anyway they’re always flickering, searching for me. You told me they’re your mother’s eyes once—I’ve never met the woman. To me, these eyes of yours are simply that— _yours_.”

There was a brief second where Harry thought Tom would say something else, _touch_ somewhere else, but it did not come.

“So no, I don’t think your face is plain at all,” she concluded. “Plain faces don’t say anything. They’re flat. It’s not that they’re expressionless—it’s that their expression is _empty_. Their heart isn’t in whatever they’re doing. _You—“_ leaning close, Tom’s breath brushed against Harry’s lips, impossibly almost a kiss,”—are not plain. For better or for worse, your wear your heart on your sleeve… and I see it. No one else does, do they? But _I_ _do_ …”

“Tom…?”

Blue met green. “Do you want me to kiss you Harry?”

And lips met lips in a sweet climax to the humid spring evening.

* * *

 

It was supposed to be just another hunt. Harry had improved leaps and bounds from her awakening, earning Tom’s approval during their shared patrol to take flight in larger and larger distances of the town. “To grow independent,” Tom had told her. She was no longer under Tom’s watchful eye, and in this forced solitude, Harry was able to experience the requirements that came with hunting Muggles.

Quick reflexes. Swift thought. Improvisation. Planning on the fly, along with an expectation that those plans could and would go wrong, so make a plan B at the same time. It wasn’t just her spell repertoire that grew—it was her _creativity_ with them. How many ways she could manipulate her power, transmit it through her stave. To what extent she could fight _without_ her stave.

This was what Harry learned.

_Speaking of creativity—_

Harry growled as a level five caught her ankle and pulled her up by it after another Muggle had disarmed her. The inky darkness swooped around her, trying to tie her up and _consume_ her. Instead of panicking, Harry kept a level head. She swung her whole body, using momentum as well as a boost of power to get herself right-side-up before kicking with her free foot. Burned by the Witch’s energy that had been put into the kick, the darkness reeled back and let her fall to the ground.

Harry knew falling into a messy heap was the _last_ thing she should do. She spun, back-flipping to land on the balls of her feet, knees bent and arms stretched to keep balance. She made a mad dash for her stave, grabbed it and skidded at an angle to avoid an incoming tendril.

“ _You’re not going to get the best of me—_ “

Harry steadied herself, already on her feet again with weapon in hand. She twirled her stave around, pointing the sharp end forward, and charged. Her run would’ve been interrupted by several more Muggles leaping at her, but she dodged around them before they could get in way of her path and finally thrust the weapon deep into the body of the level five that had lifted her. Letting out a horrid screech from its mouth, the large monster turned to ash.

Harry sighed, flicking her weapon and glancing back behind her at the rest of the Muggles. Her expression hardened.

“Time to hunt.”

* * *

 

Though, _that_ particular battle was yet to be the main event of the night. Harry finished with her side of Hogsmeade, and then flew to the meeting point for her and Tom, as per usual. What was _unusual_ was the time.

Harry waited, and waited, and waited, and still Tom did not come. Usually they finished at about the same time, if not Tom finishing faster. Harry frowned. Something was wrong. Looking up to the moon, she wondered what it could be. Maybe she was mistaken, landed on some other building instead of the usual one?

Oh, there she was. Harry could make out Tom’s form in the distance, moving slowly toward her. She relaxed. So it was nothing after all, just running late—

“ _Harry! Behind you!_ ”

…What?

And then all she could see was black—literally. It was as if she was floating in an inky ocean of darkness, not knowing what way was up or what way was down. There was no ground, no sky, no _anything_. Just black, for kilometers on end—if there _was_ such a limitless extent of the place.

Harry looked around frantically. It was so, _so_ cold in here… and she was so _alone_ …

Wait, where was Tom?

“ _Tom_!” she yelled, beginning to panic, “Tom! Where are you?”

 _Tom…_?

There was no reply.

A growing sense of dread accumulated in the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t just stay here! She had to find Tom! Harry headed off in a random direction, but it was hard to tell if she was even _moving_. The blackness did not change, moving her feet she could not sense any change, and there was still no Tom.

Tom, who was her pillar in the strange world of Witches and Muggles and magic… Tom, who taught her everything she knew, and even more. Tom who knew her better than _anyone_ —sometimes, even better than _Harry herself_. Tom, who was always there, who never shied away in complimenting her or insulting her, who called her a brat when she stuttered and ‘Harry’ when she was pleased with her and ‘Potter’ when she irritated her—

 _Tom_ , who knew when to kiss her sweetly on the forehead, nose, lips… and then when to completely snare her mind and body, drowning out all of her worries with herself.

 _Oh God_ —Harry choked. She looked down at her hands, seeing them begin to fade into the blackness as well.

She was being _consumed_.

_She needed to get out of here!_

_WhatdoIdo—oh God, what do I do what do I do what do I do—_ Harry bit hard down on her lip, drawing blood and causing an acute pain to jolt in her mouth. It brought her to her senses, forced her to _calm down_.

“I’m a _Witch_ ,” Harry breathed, “and I won’t be dying here.”

A red light began to expand from her chest. It was familiar, warm, startlingly so, almost like— _fire_.

She closed her eyes and trusted in her power.

* * *

 

When she opened her eyes next, it was still dark, but not the same endless blackness. Harry recognized where she was immediately—Tom’s place. Her bed, to be exact. And despite the warm blanket that she had been wrapped in, Harry still felt cold. Her hands frantically scrubbed at her skin, trying to bring in a little more warmth.

“For God’s sake, Potter,” a voice growled, “ _Don’t scare me like that_.”

Harry looked up as Tom walked into the room. “What happened?”

“A level seven swallowed you up,” the woman replied as she crawled next to her. Harry eagerly took advantage and snuggled into her side, sharing the blanket. “…I thought you were as good as dead.”

The younger of the two stayed silent. She pressed closer, moving her head to rest on Tom’s shoulder as her nose nuzzled into the crook of Tom’s neck. Harry could feel the rapid, uneven pulse there— _worried_. How worried had Tom must’ve been?

What was she thinking, while Harry was stuck in the belly of the beast? How long had she probably stood there, trying in vain to get Harry out, wondering, _fearing_ , that should she destroy the monster that had swallowed her companion, Harry would disappear with it.

It was a frightening truth. Neither of them, no matter how strong Tom was, how hard Harry trained and _tried_ , were completely safe. Not with both of them on the front lines. There would _always_ be the possibility that—that one of them would—maybe even—

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, choking on the last syllable, “I’m _so,_ _so_ sorry…”

Tom’s arms came around her, and that was it. They fell into oblivion together, frantically grabbing and trying beyond all reality and hells to touch and _be_ touched. Harry didn’t feel warm at all, but to Tom she must’ve been, judging by how the woman embraced her and slammed their lips together.

Harry wanted to _burn._ She wanted Tom’s warmth to scorch her, take away all of the fears and remnants of the frigid blackness that had almost consumed her. If she was going to die at some point, she _wanted_ to have this memory with her, to know someone this intimately, to hold and cherish the knowledge that _Tom_ felt the same thing she felt for her—

Male or female. Female or male. Who cared? Really, who _cared_? There was only Tom. She wanted _only Tom._

“I love you,” Harry whispered. The confession fell from her lips like the most natural thing in the world. She wanted to cry. “I love you. _Gods,_ Tom, I _really, really love you_ —“

“Again,” Tom urged, “ _Again._ Tell me—“

“ _I love you_.”

Tom’s breath stuttered against Harry’s throat before the woman began to press insistent open mouthed kisses all the way down to her collarbone. That _who they were_ would never matter to Harry was—everything she didn’t know she wanted. It was _absolutely beyond compare_ how flawless this moment, this place, this time was, as if the universe had just been waiting for them to click into place and slide into the grand puzzle together.

Harry shuddered from her spot straddling the woman as Tom’s hand slid up her shirt, fingers caressing her spine as they trailed along soft skin. She reached up, cupping Tom’s cheeks with both hands before slanting her mouth over the other’s in a wistful, demanding kiss. The rest of the world fell away. What _existed_ … simply enough, was _them_. Harry and Tom, Tom and Harry.

She wanted to erase the chills of the night, _completely_. Would—would Tom understand—

“ _Mine_ ,” the hot, breathy alto whisper near her ear wiped away any remaining doubts. Tom nipped her earlobe playfully before finding a particularly sensitive spot below her jaw along her neck. She gave an experimental lick, smirking when Harry’s yelp drowned into a low moan.

Hands slid impatiently under clothing, searching and searching for heat. Fingers stroked along curves, cupping, squeezing, _memorizing_ —

So needy. So desperate. So _exquisite_ …

“Can I?” Harry bit her lip as one of Tom’s hands paused dangerously low in their perusal of her body.

_Did she even have to ask? This woman—_

“ _Yes_.”

* * *

 

As in any relationship, Harry and Tom had their highs and lows. Their age gap was seven years, and of course, there was always the social stigma against their same-sex interactions. But… some things mattered a little less compared to each other.

Alright. Harry admitted it. A _lot_ less.

“Your priorities are less of a mess now,” Tom drawled as her arms draped around her partner’s torso. Harry batted away a wandering hand.

“ _That_ , coming from the person who put buying me _three more outfits_ over prepping for the gala Dumbledore threw? When we were _already_ running late?”

“It’s not like they could’ve said anything,” Tom shrugged, “I had to make sure you looked cute. You tend to sell yourself short if I don’t.”

“…Tom, we’d bought my outfit _a week before that_. Remember? You said—”

“Oh, hush. Honestly, can’t you let me spoil you? Where’d the little brat who could hardly say a sentence without stuttering go?”

Harry sighed and fell back into Tom’s arms. Without even looking, she was _sure_ her lover had a victorious smirk on her face. “You scared her off, you big bully.”

**Author's Note:**

> ...Am I insane? AM I?!!!! AM I?!!!!
> 
> Maybe just a bit.
> 
> So, instead of working on Nature versus Nurture, or The Game, or that revamp of Camaraderie, or ANYTHING ELSE... I've been working on this beast for the past week. Like, I don't even know where it came from, but it popped in my head one day, and then I spent several minutes shaking my head and thinking over and over 'this isn't going to happen, this isn't going to happen, this isn't going to--oh screw it. LET'S DO THIS!'
> 
> ...And then this was born. IMO I actually think this is potentially beautiful, in a very crack-ish sort of way.
> 
> AND YES. IT IS PART OF A SERIES, which means there could be spin-offs/side stories/continuations/alternate universes of this fic. Nothing's _planned_ , but I can see it potentially happening in the future. 
> 
> ...So some FYIs: 
> 
> I usually DO NOT write any Rule 63s, which is basically female!character or male!character (genderbends). I read them, sure I do, but I'm usually against writing them. My motto is, if it can fit for one gender, then why can't it fit for the other? Equality, and all that.
> 
> Only, magical girl fics don't really work if they're not, y'know, girls. Otherwise it loses some of its charm. And I also figured, if I was going to make Tom and Harry both women, ladies, girls, whatever... I might as well do it thoroughly (to be realistic; part of the reason why it's easy for me to dislike fem! stories is because they basically either turn the main character into an OC with the same name, sometimes not even that, or use the opposing genitalia for plot device reasons, such as "OH. I'M A WOMAN NOW. I'M TOTES OKAY WITH THAT, WHO CARES ABOUT BEING A MAN GO WOMEN! HEY! MY GENDER PREFERENCES CHANGED AND SUDDENLY I'M IN LOVE WITH YOU"... for example).
> 
> ./explanation
> 
> If you have any questions, or curiosities, about the universe, my inspiration, or more about what you could potentially look forward to (and I use "look forward" very loosely, just for those of you out there who know what I'm talking about), feel free to drop a comment!
> 
> Edit b/c edits make the world go around: ...So I just realized I'm like, 24 days late for April Fools...........


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